


All along

by Izvin



Category: Kolekcia Bohatier | Bogatyr Series - Juraj Červenák, Slavic Mythology & Folklore, Былины о Богатыре | Russian Bogatyr Byliny
Genre: Alienation, Angst, Character Development, Character Study, Determination, Distorted, Gen, Heroes to Villains, Identification with Shadow archetype I guess, Imprisonment, Introspection, Magic, Memories, Mind Rape, Premonition, Psychological Trauma, Ruthless, Slavery, Supressed regret, Telepathy, Transformation, Unfettered, Vamped victim in the background, What are you in the dark, dark side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22953940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izvin/pseuds/Izvin
Summary: Quote from fan discussion about AUs – “I’ve told you already. Tugarin tore down the pretty facade. This is what Volch was all along.”(A character study. Of a warrior mage who became Koščej the Deathless. With copious artistic license and/or filling in blanks. Author of the books may disagree with this portrayal. Or not. Cannot be sure either way.Whole two books (three in slovak version) are spent hammering in that Koščej isn’t Volch and after near death experience isn’t Koščej either, a deity rather (another deity confirms).But I am terribly interested in finding a continuum, seeds of later in former and remains of former in later, a narrative he may tell himself at some point. After all, the way he responds to his experiences is very specific and a result of who he was before them.)
Comments: 7





	All along

It is dark in here, but he can see well enough even without filling the crevice with light. Never again taken from him, all of it his, always accessible and ready to obliterate any opposition. And yet darkness holds little something that not only agitates him with caution and memories, but draws in.

He is slumped against wall, breathing through bitter-sweet aftershocks, fire up of violent energy and he is savouring heat spreading from his centre to extremities and fading coppery taste within his mouth. It surpasses every craving he knew before.

He opens his eyes. Corpse cooled and stiffened by now, equilibrium returning, he starts getting up and freezes mid-movement, his attention captured by his reflection on the surface of nearby puddle. Rainwater mixed with dirt and blood. He blinks, scales covering his body recede for a moment, then re-emerge and as he moves his head a bit, shadow frames and softens his pale bony features in a way reminiscent of older unspoiled reflection. One thing remains the same and that's when it clicks.

It took him quite a time. Long weeks of so slowly and naggingly crystalizing insights coming together only now.

But it makes sense.

When someone of such skill and power, as Tugarin attained with two pieces of Zirnytra’s scale, decides to destroy someone’s sense of self and turn them into mindless thrall, it leaves profound impression. That attempt was severe enough to thoroughly confuse him.

There was... Haze. Turbid unnavigable haze drowning him in disorganized shards, some half torn away, few maybe completely, but that was hard to tell, because absence is more difficult to recognize than insertion and everything was melted by liquid fire and shattered to jagged incomprehensible pieces, some of them so miniscule as new and new cracks spread and bled, deeper and deeper with each blow, until they reached his core and broke on it... Surely nothing important was lost though, the picture is coherent after all. It must be also correct.

Once Tugarin gave up, they started to settle and as he escaped from dark cave of his prison, all those bits were sorting themselves out. By the time he had to confront his past in form of Kievan bogatyrs stumbling upon him in Čeremis camp, it was enough to make sense of, enough to attach what he perceived now to what he remembered. Distant, but discernible.

He didn’t want to meet them again. He realized that only once he saw them. He spent weeks knowing, there was no way they would know he was still alive, there was no way they would come to Kokšaga from all the work in the south and yet desperately wishing, they would. Feeling Tugarin hack at each memory and flare of need and yet clinging to vision of rescue party, friends’ faces and voices. To stop the suffering that only increased. He couldn’t help it. From day to day, from hour to hour more, until every fibre and every thought of his was screaming for them, reaching out with last remains of magic he could summon, which only made it easier for Tugarin to steal it. Reaching out, until all affection and power got exhausted, spent and stripped away with everything, he used to rely on.

There was no one, could be no one. Empty shrivelled dryness and impossibility of solace. He couldn’t wish it anymore. Couldn’t think of it anymore. And seeing them now, so long overdue and unexpected was… Revolting. Burning of frozen limbs by lukewarm water. Crumbling of dead flesh by rush of blood. No, the connection was dead and their presence highlighting the knowledge unbearable.

All the more because of seeing them with new eyes.

And the thing he saw… They were so blind! Untroubled and spoilt in their ignorance and false glory, unable to comprehend what was going on, depth of risks and height of stakes. And the sheer absurdity of their faith in themselves and their ideals and happy go lucky wishful thinking! They were preoccupied with laughable things. He found himself sinking into his dark thoughts even when he tried not to and soon stopped with attempts, turning away instead. How could he stand, even enjoy it before (why couldn’t he anymore)? Children. Foolish naively rascally children. Vulnerable children… Annoying children!

And they came for Volch. Glamorous nifty Volch, further validating false pride and effortlessness. Not the useless ailing wreck he became that made them so uncomfortable.

Those jagged edges of his being were hard and cutting, yet too raw to bear being polished into something gentler. Playing nice was beyond him. Only out of choice, or because of oversensitivity? Like opened fracture? Nonsense. It was limitation to be shaken off. Of course he could, if he wanted to try.

But why would he subject himself to humiliation of paying such lip service? It was enslavement and waste of time. Previous lifetime of that was enough and if he used to believe in it, care about others feelings out of softness or convenience (and where is the line between the two?), now he better sees value and truthfulness of harshness. One that should be showed to others. That’s all there is to it. He and oversensitive? Impatient. Merely impatient. He earned right to be impatient.

He tried to deny the weakness and push through, but they stopped him and that was about the only thing they were right about, not that he would ever tell them. That they saw how wretched and dependent he has become was enough already. He hated it, the state he was in and that they knew about it, with almost as much passion as its cause.

Each morning he was mildly surprised he still woke up and wasn’t killed by sickness or put out of his misery by them like a horse with broken legs. They were too. He heard them talk about it, their sensitivities bothered by his scars reminding them of their joint failure and his coarse manner, truth too ugly. Task too dirty. And if he could look down at their narrow minds, he couldn’t blame them for being fed up with his infirmity. He was too. A burden. Barely tolerated and handled like insensible.

So powerless, he couldn’t even fight them as they carried him off from overtaken Perman chieftaifin’s tent while leaving behind Išora. Clever brave helpful Išora, so soothing, so… He still remembered the dying dream, how her light blinked out of his reach... The debt he owed her… Everything has a price, but who gets to pay it and how, that’s different matter. Nothing fair about it, it all comes down only to one thing… Well, he fixed that. Absorbed the scale and fought off all previous deficiency. Ruined few things along the way, acquired need to consume humans regularly (and grew used to it so quickly...)... But after having nothing to lose, this insight and might and resiliency, they were worth any and every irreversible sacrifice (must be, must...).

And if he wanted to weep? Each sacrifice and loss is mourned, but not every regretted. Some tears would be of relief.

Because Volch they wanted to bring to life was a lie. One they told themselves, embellished and altered like guslars telling fairy tales instead of history. Their expectations and misguided perception and idealized memories. At first, still confused from his wounds and exhaustion, he thought it to be the detestable past self of his and tried his uttermost to distance himself from it. It was, what got him into that miserable position after all.

Only with time he realized the discrepancies. Nothing to run from. He couldn’t run from himself, from one stage leading to another. And he didn’t need to run from what little was useful even back then, what was dead and what never existed in the first place. They didn’t have a clue of what was beneath. And haven’t he wanted it that way? But not like this either, did he? Their memory of Volch was a lie based on misunderstanding of another lie, one told by himself. Even things Volch considered sincere were just calculating compromises and shallowness. He can see it now.

It was something he carved to connect to world. A mask he put on to feel good and play his part in deadly court games. And deadlier battle games. And the most deadly game of friendly closeness. Seeing it for that makes the sense of loss dissipate like curse broken, it wasn’t real, it wasn’t, this is… Just a tool to suit the ways of world, he found himself in. And what he envisioned according to those rules for it and himself.

But the design was wrong. He relied on insufficient strategies, planned unreasonable things, wasted time and energy. World was much grittier and demanding. If he knew that before, he might have had come to Suwar better prepared. If he knew that before…

He recalls sparklingly memorable moments, shared triumphs, soothed grievances, sunshine eyes, baby in his arms, formal liberation, grumpy but fond respect, affectionate singing, trust… Everything warm and now cooling down. It is as good as erased retroactively, forsaken. Because all would be different. Even without draconic bloodthirst and detached omniscience. There’d be only ruthless pursuit and hoarding. He did have capacity for that even back then, he did... No bonds, no bending backwards to accommodate and prevent unpleasantness, no… Should he get to pick one of those two paths before, he knows, what he’d choose and that’s so… Well, what’s done is done and better late, than never and may the bitter price of this lesson fuel him.

No space for consideration for others, or himself. Deep down they all were primal beasts, easy to push towards total abandon that raged everywhere around unseen by mortal eyes. Where many drowned and only few could soar and lead the way (he could, had to…). Nothing sacred nor safe. Nothing above. Or bellow. All or nothing. It all came down to one thing… Power. And who had the most of it, who took the responsibility and reward. And only one could be on the top. He was the best suited, striving for it the most, earning it with his determination and understanding. What sheltered people around him believed about themselves and world, how they tick and what are irreproachable limits and fundamental truth was as illusory, as spells he had used to cast with his sceptre.

He recalls all three sceptres getting shattered one after another. Yes, with malachite one something in his life shattered too. Soft pliable warm wood and fancy polished crystals. The way he acted before, the way that was called Volch by others, was just like them. Pretty thing, but not solid enough. A mere… Accessory.

A role and attitude that served as bridge. Neither wood nor malachite gemstones mattered in the end. He might try to glue them together, but once broken and dead, under pressure they would fall apart even more easily, so why bother…

Only that piece of scale outlasting them, unmarred and in fact benefiting from reunion with the second piece. Regrown without any mark of previous breaking. Perfect. The same was the case with other two clutches, made of red wood and steel.

It clicks.

And he wants to laugh.

Something in his life got shattered, but that wasn’t him. If it was, he would be Tugarin’s mankurt now. Slave both on the outside and inside. Instead he stood up to him.

He wasn’t shattered, he re-emerged richer in knowledge, taking from being humiliated and swallowed by dragon and drained in prison, taking from Tugarin, just as older mage tried to. Taking from Jaga as well. Taking from all now.

He might have been bred with sceptre and for sceptre, but those were frail obtuse shackles. Always felt like that, silver song of primordial magic eluded by Zirnytra’s scale much clearer in his ears than his father could ever hope to understand or actually recognize. He… Was like that scale.

He traces reptilian metallic skin of his cheek with claws, as he watches their glinting reflection and listens to slight scraping sound they make.

He was that scale. Silvery core. That stubborn, stubborn core. Indestructible.

Withstanding Vseslajev’s demands, Helga’s revengefulness and mistrust, Tugarin’s looting and subjugation, Jaga’s spite, antagonism of his companions, everyone thanks to this inner vision. Call of Zirnytra’s song. His purpose (he's nothing without that).

Defiance meant to triumph. Meant to merge with the gift from Zirnytra. For he was hers just like it and only together they could be completed.

Three sceptres to break. Three shards. Three transformations.

His breath hitches, the hand drops, clenching into a fist.

There will be one more. One more clutches and shackles to be destroyed. One more thing to take.

It sounds so magnificent!

For some reason something in his stomach drops. He… He is worried. Beneath excitement for future, there runs dread, there runs anticipation of suffering and grief. How come? It is ascension, attainment of light. Pain? He is used to pain. Being a lonely light in darkness? So what? It is strong light, it cuts through darkness like his claws.

He can see silver and white rays surging forth, piercing and tearing, turning shadow into tatters. And then he sees behind the haze of rays, into their source. That’s where it is really dark. Churning black oily soup gathered drop by drop throughout ages.

He sees all the curses absorbed and created by means of scale. That it was never able nor willing to let go of. That he contains in his blood now.

He sees old green harshness, he sees bloodied altar, he sees deathbed, he sees burning Drevljan, he sees bleeding woman who sang to him, he sees leash, he sees punished friend, he sees drowned girl, he sees nail clasped by scruffy hand, he sees cruelty of cross, he sees plotting of demise, he sees bestial men, he sees vengeance, he sees sleepless nights, he sees stolen profit, he sees berserking fury towards man resembling his old captor, he sees swallowed anger and growing hunger, he sees Kievan dark cell, he sees large jaws, he sees depths of Kokšaga. He sees human imperfections and baseness overshadowing everything else uncovered by telepathy. That he contains in his mind now.

And then he tries to look even beyond that.

He shudders.

And dead certainty akin to serenity spreads through him and settles everywhere. Doubtless and irrevocable and that’s gratifying.

They tried to drown him in darkness. But long before that he was the one to seek out lairs to take. And now he is sure. Darkness didn't infect him. Because it was let out of him.

No point in reclaiming old name publicly, they won't buy it, seeing in it only the facade, he won't return to. What does it matter anyway... They never had him and he never had them and he knows who he is without labels and all that.

It is all around him, perfectly reflecting what’s inside, what always must have been. The brilliance smeared with filth and blood, its deadly sharpness, cold and calculating and voracious and pulsing with drive towards heights, dedicated towards what it discovers. It simply resorts to anything and everything, if previous approach fails. All along...

He wants to laugh as he stares through all three faces into unchanged green eyes of his reflection and the surface of puddle blurs with falling tears.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I set out to write cathartic realization consisting of comprehensive description of development from Volch into Koščej highlighting inherent features, which he has throughout the whole duration of it and I pretty much failed at that. Well, I think I correctly identified defiance, but that's it. End result is just Koščej projecting his current state at his past as coping mechanism or what. Something I haven't noticed him doing in the books. I still like it though.
> 
> I wish I'd finally write something that would feel on point. Please, bear with me.
> 
> There is a companion piece Vlastnou cestou in slovak language. What was Volch like before becoming Koščej.


End file.
